I was born the day my mother died.

And my brother decided I would pay for it forever.

He called me his sister.

But he treated her like one.

The cousin who lived in our house.

The girl he protected, trusted, and loved.

The one whose tears mattered.

She lied about me.

I explained.

He told me to stop pretending.

She stole what should've been mine—

my position, my future, my place.

And he handed it to her himself.

On my birthday—our mother's memorial day—

I was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Two years, if I fought.

I chose not to.

So when I stood on the rooftop

and he finally cried, finally begged—

I smiled.

Because after a lifetime of being abandoned,

death was the only thing

that didn't choose her over me.

And for the first time,

I wanted to know—

Was he finally happy now?

--

My mom died giving birth to me, and my brother, Marco Arden, had hated me for 20 years.

When I was 18, I was assaulted. He laughed and said, "It'd be better if you just died."

On my 24th birthday, I climbed to the rooftop. That time, he broke down in tears, begging me, "I was wrong. I'm so sorry—"

The wind howled past my ears. I just looked at him, a smile curling on my lips. "I'm about to die. Are you happy now, Marc?"

***

Marco called right as I walked in the door.

The diagnosis in my bag was already crumpled into a ball.

He'd never called me first before.

"It was Dad's birthday two days ago."

His voice was cold, sharp as ice. It always was.

"Why didn't you come home..."

"Because I didn't want to," I cut him off. "You went back, didn't you?"

"Tammy flew in from overseas."

Tamara Elmore was my uncle's daughter. She'd lived with us since we were kids.

"That was great. You only ever treat her like a sister anyway."

Something seemed to snap in him. His voice tightened with anger as he muttered my name, "Briana Arden!"

I pressed the hang-up button.

The last bit of evening light spilled into the room.

I sat at the desk and tore the diagnosis into shreds.

The scraps of paper fluttered down, covering the table, when suddenly my phone lit up.

Marco texted, "Mom's memorial is coming up."

Marco was my older brother.

He'd always hated me.

Because I was the reason he lost his mom.

More than 20 years ago, Mom died in childbirth. The moment I came into the world, she left it on the operating table.

It was a murder disguised as a birth.

No one celebrated my arrival.

Because of me, Dad lost the woman he loved most.

And Marco lost his mother.

This endless grudge began the day I was born and had lasted ever since.

I didn't skip Dad's birthday on purpose.

It was just that, on that day, the pain in my stomach was so intense I nearly passed out. That was when I realized something was wrong.

But honestly, maybe my absence made things easier for him.

Marco didn't reach out to me again.

Standing outside the office building, I took a deep breath.

After graduation, I joined his company.

I worked my way up from the very bottom, step by step, and yet no one ever realized we were related.

I actually saw him less often than the average employee did.

Last week, an executive resigned, and on Monday, they were set to announce the successor.

Everyone said the position was as good as mine.

At least, that was what I believed—until I got the diagnosis.

I ran into a coworker in the hallway. She waved, then came closer with a bright grin. "Bria, don't forget to treat us to a big dinner when you get promoted!"

I lowered my eyes and smiled. "It's not a sure thing yet."

"It has to be you," she said, looping her arm through mine. "Out of everyone here, you're the best."

When I walked into the conference room, Marco was already there. Our eyes met for just a brief moment, then he looked away, as if I were a stranger.

"Good morning, Mr. Arden."

He didn't look at me, just nodded.

So indifferent, it was as if that argument the other night had never happened.

People trickled into the room, filling the seats.

Marco cleared his throat, and my coworker shot me a knowing look.

I dropped my gaze, avoiding her eyes.

The next second, I heard a familiar name.

"Tamara Elmore."

Tamara stepped in from the hallway, slender and graceful, her smile as gentle as ever.

Marco stood beside her, introducing her to everyone. "Ms. Elmore just returned from overseas and will be stepping into the role of deputy manager."

Some people instinctively glanced at me. I looked away, focusing on Tamara's radiant smile at the front of the room. For a moment, it felt like the air itself had frozen.

The simmering tensions filled the room.

I smiled and applauded.

The scattered clapping broke the strange tension in the conference room.

Tamara met my eyes, her gaze warm and soft.

The scent of coffee in the break room was so strong it felt like it might spill over. I stirred my cup with a spoon, took a sip, and swallowed, the bitterness rising in my throat.

My coworker stared wide-eyed, indignant on my behalf.

"How is this fair? She just swoops in and snatches your spot. Doesn't even try to hide the fact she's got an inside connection.

"Bria, aren't you angry?

"That job was supposed to be yours. You work so hard—last time you nearly ended up in the hospital from all that overtime."

Her eyes lingered on the dark circles under mine. "Bria, I'm just saying, you don't have to push yourself so hard. Cut back on the coffee."

The warmth of the coffee seeped through the ceramic, heating my hand. I murmured, "Mr. Arden must have his reasons."

She widened her eyes, about to whisper some complaint, but her phone rang, shrill and sudden.

Marco's voice cut through the cramped break room, tense and barely restrained, "Briana, come to my office."

My grip slipped, and a few drops of coffee splattered onto my white blouse, the heat burning through the fabric against my skin.

I answered quietly, "Okay."

The moment Marco's office door swung open, I saw Tamara sitting on the couch, her head bowed slightly.

She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand.

Marco sat nearby, his face cold, anger barely contained.

People used to say that even though Marco and I came from the same womb, the only thing we shared was our eyes.

The corners of our eyes tilt upward—when we're not smiling, there's a natural chill that keeps everyone at arm's length.

Too bad neither of us likes to smile.

And Marco has never once smiled at me.

"Tammy may have parachuted in, but she has the ability to handle the job.

"Briana."

Marco called my name, his brow furrowing.

"If you have complaints, say them to my face. Whispering behind people's backs, teaming up with coworkers to isolate Tammy—Briana, is malice carved into your bones?"

It had only been half a day.

I glanced sideways at Tamara. She happened to look up, our eyes meeting.

Her face still had the fullness of youth, her eyes rimmed red, tears catching the light.

She quickly lowered her gaze.

The cast of this little drama was all in place, just waiting for me to play my part. But I had no interest in acting along.

"People can say whatever they want. What does it have to do with me?

"And besides, everyone here isn't stupid."

A sob and the sound of something hitting the floor broke out together. The expensive pen that had been on the desk was now shattered into pieces.

Black ink spread out by my feet.

"Briana! You—"

A single sheet of paper drifted down onto his desk.

Marco's words caught in his throat. When he saw what was written, his anger flared up again. "Briana!"

"Are you a child?

"Are you throwing a tantrum?"

My brand-new resignation letter was crushed into a ball and tossed back at my feet like garbage.

But it wasn't a tantrum.

I'd known for a long time.

I didn't have the right to throw a tantrum.

Only children who were loved had that right.

And I never did.

"I'll talk to HR myself."

As I closed the door, his shouting was left behind with him inside.

I hadn't gone far before Tamara caught up to me.

"Bria." Her voice was still a little thick from crying, and she reached out carefully to take my hand.

"Bria, please don't be upset. I don't want this job. I'll talk to Marc—I don't want you to be mad.

"I shouldn't have come back. Bria, don't let me ruin things between you and Marc."

The hallway was empty.

I stopped and looked at her.

Tamara's eyes always carried a natural innocence, a look that made people want to protect her. Paired with her slightly red eyes and nose, she could win anyone's sympathy without even trying.

She looked just like she did ten years ago, right after she first moved in with us.

"Tamara."

I stepped closer, pinching her chin. "This act—never fails, does it?

"Does it?"

Tamara's face went pale in an instant.

The elevator chimed.

I let go, turned, and walked inside. She seemed stunned, still standing there.

I smiled at her. "You know perfectly well, there's never been any real sibling bond between me and him.

"If anything, you're more like his sister than I ever was."

As the elevator doors slid shut, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection—expressionless, blank.

A sharp pain twisted through my abdomen.

Honestly, things between Marco and me hadn't always been this bad.

When we were kids, even though he didn't like me, he never did anything truly cruel or said anything out of line.

Compared to Dad, who treated me like I was invisible, Marco, as my brother, was the only person I felt close to.

Back then, I thought, even if Marco didn't care for me, we were still family. Blood ties are supposed to mean something.

That was true—until Tamara moved in when I was in middle school.

It was when I realized Marco was capable of being good to someone.

He didn't always wear that icy mask around her. He never told her to "get lost," never hit her with sarcasm or cold remarks.

That was how a brother was supposed to treat his sister.

But Tamara wasn't satisfied.

Five days after she transferred to my school, I came home one afternoon, and Marco slapped me, hard.

I stared at him, stunned, clutching my face. He muttered things I couldn't quite make out.

Instigator.

Bad seed.

Malicious.

Apologize.

But when I saw Tamara standing behind him, head down, clutching the hem of his shirt for comfort, those scattered words suddenly pieced together in my mind, forming a complete, painful lie.

I tried to defend myself, but he didn't believe me.

The fight that broke out that day—and his obvious favoritism—shattered the naïve, foolish hope I'd always held onto.

Marco wasn't some idiot who couldn't tell right from wrong.

He was doing it on purpose.

It was only after that day that I finally understood my brother truly, deeply hated me.

Our relationship deteriorated fast after that.

But I was stubborn and childish, thinking that instead of letting him treat me like a stranger, the way Dad did, it was better to fight him head-on.

At least then, Marco would actually see me.

Our constant battles lasted until I turned 18.

At 18, I was dragged into hell.

After that, Marco and I became strangers overnight.

Like a war that ended without warning.

No more fights, no more screaming, no more confrontation.

Just cold indifference, as if we'd never known each other at all.

By the time I finished the paperwork and made it home, the sky outside was pitch black.

The streetlights in the neighborhood hadn't come on yet; all I could see were the warm, yellow lights glowing from distant windows across the street.

The pain in my stomach had been gnawing at me since the afternoon and hadn't let up.

Curled up on the couch, hunger and agony crawled over my body. I forced myself to stand and open the refrigerator.

A wave of nauseating rot hit me. That's when I realized—I hadn't opened the fridge in over a month.

I grabbed a handful of wilted greens, rinsed them off quickly, and set them on the cutting board. The sound of the knife hitting the wood was uneven and shaky.

Bright red blood dripped onto the emerald leaves, blooming into a raw, metallic flower.

I froze.

The pain radiated from the fresh wound, and only then did I realize I'd sliced my hand.

When the urge surged up, I couldn't stop myself.

Old scars crisscrossed with new ones—another mark added to the collection, trailing from my arm down to my wrist.

The knife clattered to the floor as I sank to my knees, gasping for air.

It felt like I was losing control more and more, drawn to hurting myself.

The doctor used to say, "When the symptoms flare up, you must take your medication."

But I hadn't.

She also told me to spend more time with my family.

"Briana, talk to your loved ones, let yourself feel loved.

"It'll help with your recovery."

But...

I stared at the winding trail of blood.

But I don't have any family.

I didn't touch the food I cooked last night. It all ended up in the trash.

Hunger and pain twisted together, finally knocking me out cold on the bed.

Early in the morning, someone knocked at the door.

Half-asleep, I stumbled off the couch and shuffled over. I cracked the door open, and when I saw who was outside, every trace of drowsiness vanished.

Marco stood there, his expression frosty as ever, eyes unreadable.

Instinctively, I slammed the door shut, the metal-on-metal clang echoing between us, a barrier as solid as steel.

I hurried back to my room, threw on a jacket, and changed into a pair of long pants.

When I opened the door again, Marco's gaze landed on my face, cold enough to sting.

"What do you want?"

I skipped the pleasantries.

His eyes dropped to my wrist, where a small, colorful tattoo peeked out from beneath my sleeve.

Marco narrowed his eyes, voice icy. "You got a tattoo on your arm, too?"

I didn't answer. Marco seemed to take my silence as confirmation, and the indifference in his eyes flickered, replaced by something sharper. "You just have to hang around with that delinquent, huh? Is your plan to turn yourself into trash like her?"

I knew Marco's words could cut deep; when things were at their worst between us, every sentence was a poisoned blade, aimed to wound.

But he didn't get to talk about Iliana Matlock.

Because she was my one, only, and best friend.

The faint smell of smoke clung to Marco, making my stomach churn, veins throbbing at my temples.

Pain surged through my gut, and I gripped the door handle, knuckles white and shaking, unable to hold back.

But the slap I meant for his face never landed. Instead, he caught my wrist, his grip tight, his skin pressing against the old scars.

I saw the flash of shock on Marco's face as he caught sight of the marks. "The scars on your wrist..."

He didn't get to finish. This time, I slapped him hard across the face.

His head jerked to the side, pale skin blooming red where my hand landed. I'd hit him with everything I had.

The smell of tobacco wrapped around my nerves, cold fear crawling up from the soles of my feet, spreading through me until I was numb.

I wrenched free from his grasp, my wrist already burning and red.

I gripped my own hands together, trying to keep myself from shaking so violently.

"Briana..."

"Get out."

I kept my eyes down, staring at my feet.

"Don't touch me.

"Get out!"

Marco left.

I ran to the bathroom, scrubbing my hand with a towel like I'd lost my mind—scrubbing the spot where he'd touched me.

The rough skin split open, blood mixing with icy water, the vivid color sending a jolt through my brain. I gripped the edge of the sink, gasping for air until I finally calmed down.

When the food delivery arrived at noon, the driver handed me a massive bag. I spread everything out on the coffee table.

The rich aroma overwhelmed my senses, and after two days of hunger, my stomach surrendered.

I grabbed my fork and shoveled it all in, barely tasting anything as I filled myself to the brim.

But I ate too much. My stomach churned violently, and I ended up in the bathroom, vomiting it all back out.

The damp bathroom floor soaked through my clothes, the pain so raw and real it felt like I was teetering on death's edge. Lying there, I scrolled through my phone, flipping slowly through old messages.

The last conversation stopped a month ago.

Iliana's final message asked me what I'd eaten that day.

I hadn't replied.

I hadn't told her when I got my diagnosis, either.

Five years of friendship—so long it felt carved into my life, so short it could be erased in just a few hours.

"Are you sure you want to delete your chat history with 'Lia'?"

The words glared up at me.

But the pain in my abdomen grew sharper, as if urging me on, and I pressed delete.

Five years of memories vanished in an instant, along with the last tie I had to this world.

The day I got my diagnosis, the doctor looked me in the eye and spoke earnestly, "It's late-stage stomach cancer, but if you stay positive and pursue treatment, you could live another two or three years."

I smiled and thanked him, but didn't respond.

I had no reason to fight for more time.

My brother once hoped—desperately—that I would die.

I drifted through the days at home, barely aware of how much time had passed.

My life became a vicious cycle of hunger, binge eating, and vomiting, each round chipping away at what was left of me.

One day, I happened to check my phone and realized an important date was coming up.

I tidied myself up and decided to go to the mall to buy a dress that would suit the occasion.

When I looked in the mirror, I noticed how quickly my cheeks had hollowed out, my skin so pale it was almost colorless.

After a moment, I put on some makeup.

It was a weekday, so the mall wasn't crowded.

I wandered aimlessly from floor to floor until a display window caught my eye—a beautiful white dress.

As I walked in, a sales associate greeted me warmly. I was just about to point out the dress in the window when a lively voice rang out behind me, "Marc, that white dress is gorgeous!"

Some things happen by pure coincidence.

Tamara walked in at that exact moment, her wide, doe-like eyes meeting mine. She lit up instantly, calling out, "Bria!"

As if nothing had ever come between us.

Marco stood at the entrance, his gaze icy as he looked my way.

How nice, I thought. The prodigal "little sister" returns from abroad, and Marco's playing the doting brother, taking her shopping.

I forced a sarcastic smile and ignored them.

"That dress—the medium. Please wrap it up for me.

"And I'll take one too, medium."

Tamara and I both pointed to the same white dress.

The sales associate glanced over apologetically. "This style has been really popular this year. There's only one medium left—the one on the mannequin. If you two don't mind, I can check for other styles or see if we have more in stock."

Tamara frowned, just about to speak. "Well—"

"Wrap it up for me," I cut her off without hesitation.

The sales associate nodded and went to retrieve it.

"Bria," Tamara called out suddenly.

I looked up at her. "What is it?"

"Could you let me have the dress?" she asked, her voice tinged with guilt. "You know how much I love white dresses, Bria. You hardly ever wear them..."

No shame at all.

I glanced at Marco, but he kept his eyes down, silently letting Tamara do as she pleased.

It was laughable.

After all these years, nothing had changed.

Everything Tamara liked, she expected me to give up for her.

Toys, clothes, awards... and even family.

"No," I replied, cold and firm.

Tamara fell silent, watching as I took the wrapped dress from the associate. Her eyes shimmered with tears as she lowered her head and retreated to Marco's side.

He leaned in and said something to her; she brightened immediately, looping her arm through his, beaming with delight.

She shot me a quick glance, as if to flaunt her victory—my brother had become hers.

The truth was, the dress didn't matter at all.

What she really wanted was for me to see that my brother seemed to love her more.

But who cares?

It's always been this way, for as long as I can remember.

The days slipped by, one after another.

My health kept getting worse.

Marco never reached out to me again.

I flipped through the calendar, counting the dwindling number of days I had left.

Until Tamara's text arrived.

She invited me to a banquet, tacking on a line at the end. "Bria, Marc's really worried about you. This is a good chance for you two to patch things up."

Her ability to play dumb was as sharp as ever.

I glanced at the calendar and decided to go.

The ballroom glittered with golden light, filled with well-dressed people drifting from group to group. The clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation blended into a lively roar.

After being alone for so long, I felt out of place, exposed in the middle of all that noise.

Not far away, Marco and Tamara stood together, chatting with someone else.

Marco glanced over, his expression shifting as he turned slightly in my direction, but didn't move.

Like he was waiting for me to come over and start a conversation.

But I didn't.

Tamara caught sight of me, too.

She immediately smiled and walked over, but I turned away and slipped out of the crowded hall without hesitation.

The wind on the balcony was fierce.

I sat on the edge, listening to the laughter and chatter drifting out from the party behind me, counting down the minutes until I could go home.

Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind, and I fell backward into a stranger's arms.

The overpowering stench of tobacco closed in around me, and nausea surged up so fast I could barely hold it back.

I shoved the man away, fighting to break free, and caught sight of Tamara standing behind him.

She wore a beautiful dress and winked at me.

My phone buzzed quietly in my purse. I picked it up and saw her message.

"Bria, Owen saw you just now and asked me to introduce you. So I brought him over.

"He's a good guy; you two should get along."

"I don't—"

Before I could finish typing, Owen Terrell grabbed my wrist. His eyes lingered on my chest, then flicked away as if nothing had happened.

Just that look was enough to bring all my old fears rushing back.

I slapped his hand away.

There was nothing in my stomach, but I couldn't help retching. He leaned closer, and I shrank back, inching away.

Dim light.

Heavy smoke.

A tall, unfamiliar man.

All of it snapped the last thread of reason in my mind.

I covered my mouth, gagging, and with trembling hands pulled a switchblade from my purse, waving it wildly.

The blade grazed his skin, and blood bloomed, coloring my world in red.

"Briana!"

A furious shout rang out as someone smacked my hand, knocking the knife to the floor, where it glinted in the cold moonlight outside the window.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Marco's voice cracked like thunder.

I felt like someone had gripped my throat, my temples pulsing, something threatening to explode inside my head.

I clutched my mouth, my eyes burning and dry, gasping for air like a wounded animal.

Tamara swept in, her dress swirling, and gasped when she saw the scene, her voice trembling. "What happened?

"Owen, why are you bleeding?

"Didn't you say you liked Bria and wanted to talk to her?"

The stranger frowned. "I didn't do anything. She just pulled out a knife..."

"Marc," Tamara called Marco's name, her meaning clear. "I trust Owen's character."

The implication was obvious.

I struggled to breathe, reached out, and tried to slap her, but Marco shoved me away, and I crashed to the floor.

The three of them stared down at me.

Every part of me was hurting.

I was like a broken robot, barely holding myself together.

I heard Marco's cold voice, "What the hell is wrong with you?!

"Briana.

"Are you sick or something?"

Briana.

Are you sick?

Are you—

Sick?

I wanted to cry.

But the tears wouldn't come.

I braced myself against the wall, pushing through the agony as I struggled to my feet.

"Yes.

"I'm sick."

I wouldn't be alive much longer.

I leaned against the door, using every ounce of strength just to stand upright.

I knew my stomach was empty, nothing left to throw up.

But suddenly my throat felt sweet.

Thick blood welled up from my mouth, staining my clothes, dripping onto the floor.

I saw Marco freeze.

Saw him instinctively reach out to touch me.

But I stepped back.

"Why don't you ask me?

"Why don't you ask what he did to me?

"You're always ready to believe Tamara, never once willing to hear me out, never wanting to listen.

"Because you never cared.

"In the end, it's always my fault—

"Because I'm the sinner.

"I owe Mom her life.

"Is that it?"

The room went silent.

My brother was shaken for a moment.

Then he calmed instantly.

I heard him reply, in the same flat tone as always, "Isn't that true?"

Isn't that true?

"Yeah."

Still no tears.

Even though my eyes burned like fire, not a single drop would fall.

"So I'm about to pay Mom back."

This was the last time I'd ever call him "brother".

I looked at Marco, curved my lips into a smile. "I'm about to die.

"Are you happy now, brother?"